My hypochondria

One of my hobbies is diagnosing myself with all sorts of ailments, some physical, some mental. My family knows this. In fact, my sister once brought home a used DSM for me, knowing that I would appreciate it. I read that book for fun for several years. Did you know that homosexuality used to be listed as a mental disorder? Crazy times.

Even though I genuinely get worried about the results of my self-diagnosis, I admit I take some sort of satisfaction in this neurosis. I think it’s similar to how some people enjoy enumerating/bemoaning their symptoms of gout, diabetes, hypertension, etc.

So to indulge myself, I’m going to give a brief history of the illnesses with which I’ve diagnosed myself over the years.

• When I was about six or seven, I diagnosed myself with prostate cancer. Clearly, I was a newbie to the medical world. My diagnosis was based on a pharmaceutical magazine ad that asked “do you urinate several times a night?” and two other questions. I can’t remember the other questions but I promptly shared my findings with my family. I can’t remember how they reacted.
• When I was 10, I’m pretty sure I had trichotillomania . I kept pulling hair until I had a bald spot on my head about the size of a quarter. I remember struggling to control my urge to pull more hair.
• A few months ago, I was convinced I had plantar fasciitis. I actually asked my doctor about this but she said I probably just had bruised heels. The heel pain wasn’t in the right spot for plantar fasciitis.
• Stomach aches get diagnosed as appendicitis. Migraine headaches get diagnosed as brain tumors.

I think that deep in my subconscious, my obsession with self-diagnosis is a preemptive defense mechanism. I know that my self-diagnoses aren’t medically valid, which means I really don’t have that illness. And there, I diagnosed my neurosis. See what I did there?

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